A Confession
by LikeASociopath
Summary: Injured and hospitalised, Sherlock tries to get a grip of himself, though John picked the wrong - or maybe right - moment to interfere. The detective then realizes that...there are some things you just have to say before it's too late.


This is written for **Let's Write Sherlock Challenge 15: Trope Bingo **on Tumblr.

Bingo Card Number: 2

Trope: A Confession

Many thanks to my beta reader **Black Angel of the Underworld **for her brilliant advise and patience. And I hope you enjoy the story.

* * *

-The Reichenbach Fall, John Hamish Watson-

"_I was so alone and I owe you so much. Please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it, stop this..."_

* * *

John sat up from his chair when the door opened. It was Molly, making her daily morning check on Sherlock.

"No change?"

John shook his head. "No." His tired gaze shifted back to Sherlock. If it weren't for the monitors banked on either side of him, Sherlock looked as if he wasn't breathing. He looked so frail, so vulnerable lying in the hospital bed, with his left leg in a cast and the raw stitches on his forehead that contrasted strongly with his pale face.

John's breath still caught in his throat every time his gaze fell on the bandage that wrapped around Sherlock's chest. A gunshot wound. A fucking gunshot wound. If it weren't for Lestrade, the bullet would have punctured his heart.

Sherlock would have died.

There would be no faking this time.

Sherlock would have _really_ died.

He shouldn't be like this, so still, so…lifeless. He should be pacing around the room deducing everything in sight. Hell, even with him calling everyone an idiot was a better sight than him not moving.

The doctor had explained the injuries to them and guaranteed that Sherlock would wake soon. But that didn't make it any easier for John. He sank back onto the seat wearily and rubbed his tired face with his calloused hands. He hadn't gotten a wink of sleep in the past two days. His mind was still racing and fragments of memories of Sherlock were playing over and over again. And it was easy, almost too easy for his mind to go back to the moment Sherlock stepped off of St. Barts' roof.

Molly placed a hand on his shoulder with a gentle squeeze. "Stop blaming yourself, John."

"I was so angry with him, Molly. I didn't return any of his calls, his texts, I didn't want to see him." He let out a bitter chuckle. "He was gone for two years. Two long years spent in isolation to dismantle Moriarty's network. Two years abroad doing what others could not do, just to save us."

He remembered the panic he felt when he received Mycroft's call. "And what did I do to repay him? By being petty about him not telling me the truth, by being angry with him not including me in his plan when he did it all to save my life.

"So no, Molly. It's my fault. If I was there, I could have watched his back, I could stop—" He stopped abruptly when he found his voice choked with emotions. He just felt so angry with himself, with everyone, resenting them for talking and walking when Sherlock—the unique and wonderful man—could not.

"What if he hates me, Molly? What if he doesn't forgive me?" John said helplessly.

Molly chewed on her lips. "You don't see it, do you?"

"What?" John turned to look at her but Molly's gaze was focused on the still figure on the bed. She didn't speak for a moment, but when she did, her voice was quiet.

"It's not my place to say anything, John. But Sherlock would _never_ hate you. And he would always, always forgive you."

"How do—"

"The few times he slept at all - " John knew Molly was referring to the days when Sherlock used her place as a bolt hole. " - he would wake up screaming your name and no matter how late it was, he would phone Mycroft to make sure you were unharmed. It was always John this, John that. And he even called me by your name a few times." Molly smiled slightly, trying to make light of the situation, but John could see the conversation was painful for her.

"Molly…" He covered her hand that was placed on his shoulder and gave it a small, comforting squeeze.

"Do you see it, John? He was always so alone, trapped in his mind and his genius that he closed himself off from everyone else. But then you came along, John, you taught him that not all emotions are bad, and you showed him what it was to be human. You changed him for the better." Her head tipped to look at him, and a warmer smile graced her lips. "And you became the most important person to him."

* * *

It was another day before Sherlock woke up.

And it was more than a half an hour later when Sherlock and John were finally left alone in the room.

John busied himself with looking at the medical chart and fetching water for Sherlock, all the while keeping his hand on Sherlock's when he could.

He didn't get to do it as often as he liked because Sherlock didn't like to be touched. There were times when John hoped there would've been more between them, but he'd contented himself with the small brushing of fingers whenever he handed Sherlock a cup of tea, the light touching of knees when they had sat in a cab together, or the occasional bumping of shoulders whenever they had walked together.

They didn't speak for a long while. The silence was only broken when John noticed Sherlock's gaze fall on his hand. John blushed and stammered, "Oh, I—I'm sorry."

However, when John moved to take his hand away, Sherlock panicked. He tried to sit up from the hospital bed but a sudden wave of dizziness overcame him and he collapsed back onto the pillows, sucking in air harshly through his teeth while trying to will the dizziness away and stabilize his breathing. "Don't," he gasped out, "don't go."

And then John's hands were back, one remained on Sherlock's wrist and another rubbed at his shoulder to calm him down. "I'm not going anyway, Sherlock. I - " John took in a deep breath. "I can't leave yet. You scared me. You scared the bloody hell out of me."

Something in John's voice made Sherlock look up at him sharply. "John."

The ex-army doctor avoided Sherlock's scrutiny for a moment before turning back to fix the consulting detective with a steady gaze that made him squirm uncomfortably in the bed.

"Sherlock." John gritted his teeth. "You could have died. _Really died_. And this time, there would be no coming back. And what were you thinking anyway? The suspect had a gun! A gun, Sherlock!" And suddenly, John was really angry. He didn't know whether it was anger towards Sherlock's recklessness, or anger towards himself for not being there; he just wanted to lash out at someone, or something, for the stress he'd been feeling for the past few days.

John freed his hand from Sherlock's grip and moved to pace around the room. He felt torn, as if he was consumed by all the raw emotions within him and he no longer knew what to do. Two years ago, he had witnessed the man he had feelings for fall to his death, and he felt like a piece of himself died with it. Then he spent two years thinking the man was dead, while the man himself was working to take down Moriarty's network. Now, a miracle happened and his Sherlock came back. But this stupid, infuriating genius just had to go and almost get killed. Again.

John pulled his hair in frustration. "What were you thinking, Sherlock? He had a gun and you went after him all by yourself! What makes you think it is a good idea to go after the man alone? What makes you think you have the right to risk your life like this? Why can't you just wait for the police before running after the man?" He paused and looked back at Sherlock.

"Just what—what were you thinking?" His voice broke when all his anger just rushed out of him, leaving him with another rush of emotions at the thought of not seeing the man again - at the thought of him_ dying_.

John quickly turned around when tears started to trail down his cheeks, and he pressed his hands against his eyes to stop them. It was uncontrollable. Years of pent up emotions just came out when he sobbed. It was like a dam had been breached; tears of anguish, of guilt, of gratitude, and of every other feelings he had over the course of two years just poured out of him.

Sherlock, on the other hand, felt like ice just pierced through his heart. He never wanted to hurt John this badly. All he ever wanted was to keep his doctor safe.

"Don't cry, John," he muttered. "Please."

When John didn't respond, Sherlock tried to reach for his hand but his movement was restrained and weighed down by the tubes and medication. Angry with himself, he stopped.

Sherlock felt useless at the sight of John. For a long moment, the silence of the room was filled with John's quiet sobbing, until Sherlock spoke again, with his voice hoarse with helplessness.

"I'm sorry."

This time, John heard him. The soft apology was enough to snap the doctor out of it. "No, Sherlock. It's not your fault." He then turned around to face Sherlock again. "Don't apologize."

And in the dim light of the room, the consulting detective could see that John's eyes were red from crying and his shoulders were slumped in defeat.

"It's not your fault too, John."

The former army doctor let out a bitter chuckle. "What? Not my fault that I was stubborn and petty for being angry with you at something you had to do? You don't deserve any of it, Sherlock. If anything, I should thank you for saving my life." He closed his eyes in shame and whispered, "I should have been there, Sherlock. You wouldn't be here if I was there. I could've help, I would've stopped him, and you wouldn't be shot, Sherlock."

"Don't be an idiot, John. No one can foresee this."

John didn't say anything. Instead, the two of them let the silence stretch until Sherlock's voice broke the suffocative atmosphere.

"I missed you," Sherlock said, his voice quiet.

"Sherlock…"

Sherlock turned his head to look at the far wall instead of John. It wasn't easy for him to speak of his feelings. Like he'd told John, relationships were not his area. He did not have much data to go with and frankly, he did not need it anyway. But two years of running, two years of taking down a mad man's network alone, of being away from the only person he'd came to care about, was enough to make him understand that sometimes, you had to act before it was too late.

"I'm not good with this. This…sentiment. Coming back was much more difficult than I'd thought," Sherlock spoke quietly; his face twitched into a self-deprecating grimace.

John felt his heart being pulled by Sherlock's words. For all his anger and gratitude of Sherlock being alive, he didn't know what the man went through during those two years. And he might never be able to fully comprehend what it was like for Sherlock. But likewise, Sherlock might never understand what his friends went through either.

"People change with time, Sherlock. All of us do. Whether you wanted it or not, your 'death' had an impact on everyone who knew you. Some of us managed to move on, but some just…stuck." John's eyes became distant at this point; his mind went back to the times when he found himself unable to go back to the flat. It took him nearly half a year to reconcile with the fact that Sherlock was gone.

Sherlock turned his head to look at John and not for the first time, he longed for the light to be brighter just so he could fully see John's face and deduced what the man was feeling. When he spoke again, his voice was barely more than a whisper. "I'm sorry that you're hurt by my deception, John. But I'm not sorry that I had to fake my death to save you. It was my fault that Moriarty targeted you. I had to make sure you would be safe; I needed you to be safe. I couldn't let anything happen to you."

John's mind went back to the conversation he had with Molly the day before, about Sherlock suffering from nightmares of him dying whenever he slept. "Sherlock, I—"

"I was alone all my life, John. Then you moved in and changed it. I deduced everything about you when we first met and you said _fantastic_." Sherlock's mouth quirked slightly upwards. "You complained about the experiments, the sound of the violin at odd times, the way I talked to other people, but you never left. You were always there, John. And it was…nice."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably on the bed and John could see how much the consulting detective was struggling just to say these words out loud.

Sentimentality was never one of Sherlock's strong points. And it warmed John's heart that he did it for him. "It's okay, Sherlock. You don't need to explain."

"No, no. I need to." Sherlock unconsciously moved to link their fingers together, seeking reassurance that John was still there. "I owe you this much, John. For a long time I've regarded sentiment to be a chemical defect found on the losing side: a weakness. But it isn't. With you, sentiment is something I cannot delete. It is always there, in the back of my mind, never really going away."

At this, Sherlock had to close his eyes and take a deep breath, wincing slightly when the movement stretched the stitches on his chest.

_I have to calm down_, Sherlock thought. The post-surgery pain was slowly coming back and he longed for morphine to take away the pain. But it wouldn't do for the drug to cloud his mind now.

His mind was usually organized, unburdened with any unnecessary information and emotions. He was able to retreat to his mind palace to review everything he'd learn and to decide which should be stored and which should be deleted. But now, it was like trying to breathe underwater. His mind was an unmanageable jumble of thoughts and emotions. And it irritated him, so much.

But he needed to talk.

He needed John to _understand_.

"It hurt to go back to the flat without you being there. It hurt to see you walk away from me. And it hurt to go on cases without you." He gave their joined hand a gentle squeeze when he saw John flinch from his words. "No, John. I'm not blaming you. I have expected your anger, I just wasn't prepared enough to face it."

He'd expected the anger that would be directed to him once the truth was revealed and he knew of the pain it would cause, but it didn't hurt any less to see John walked away from him.

"I wasn't...I wasn't like this before. All these…emotions. I didn't know when it happened, or how it happened…I think I have loved you for a very long time, John Watson."

The doctor's eyes widened in surprise, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock barreled on, fearing that he wouldn't be able to say what he wanted after John had spoken. "But I've brought you nothing but danger and anguish since we met, John. People hurt you because of me. Moriarty targeted you because of me. Then I hurt your feelings when I faked my death and you were hurt again when I came back." His fingers curled into fists and his knuckles became white. "It shouldn't be that way, John. It shouldn't—"

John held up a hand to stop him. "You're an idiot, Sherlock."

"What?" Sherlock's head snapped around, meeting John's eyes, and his fists loosened at the unexpected reply.

"My life was miserable after I was discharged from the army, Sherlock. But I met you, and you changed me. It felt like I'd found a purpose in life again. I was a different person than I was before and I like the person I've become after I met you."

John moved to sit on the bed and placed his other hand on Sherlock's hair. Although he was unsure of the situation, the consulting detective couldn't help but lean into the touch. "So the danger doesn't frighten me, Sherlock. What frighten me is the fact that you might die and never return to me."

Sherlock opened his eyes and found his breath caught in his throat when his gaze fell on the fire burning within John's beautiful eyes.

"But I - " He swallowed hard, and his voice shook when he spoke again. "I can't give you anything, John. I can't promise you anything."

The hand in his hair moved gently to cup his face, thumb grazing ever so slightly over his cheekbone. "No, Sherlock." Then John, his beautiful, wonderful John, leaned down and kissed him softly on the lips, a touch so soft that it barely registered, but spoke of promises and a future.

"You gave me a miracle."

* * *

Thank you for reading it! I hope I did this trope justice :)

You can visit me on Tumblr, my account is under the same pen name (likeasociopath).


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